Alonzo and Michael stepped off the dimly lit street and passed through the heavy wooden outer doorway of Alonzo’s house. Inside there was a small atrium in which a maastaba seat rested against the facing wall. Turning left Alonzo, limping a good deal more after their walk, led them down a narrow corridor that terminated in a Mozarab archway. It also had a heavy wooden door but this time the panels were more elaborately carved in Arabic script. Alonzo paused and touched one of its panels, tracing the script with his finger. He turned to Michael, “A prayer to Allah giving thanks for the safe return of the traveller.”

The archway door opened into a rectangular shaped courtyard with a vaulted open perimeter passageway. In the centre of the courtyard was a pencil-like pool with three fountains that were carved in the shape of water lilies. Fine jets spouted upwards from these only to fall again in geometrically split cascades. It was very similar in style to the beautiful Patio of the Acequia, where they had walked earlier. Alonzo flicked a switch and the pool’s waters were immediately bathed in a soft yellow light. There were orange and mulberry trees and from the upper floors of the surrounding building purple Brazilian bougainvillea cascaded to the ground. “This way, Michael,” Alonzo invited as he opened another door.

Michael followed him into what appeared to be a study. The floor was covered with smooth ochre-coloured marble tiles and in the middle of the room set away from the wall that faced the door was an elaborate desk with fine Italian marquetry panels. Michael saw that the design effect on the uncluttered surface was that of a cosmological map of the heavens. On the legs were representations of various astrophysical instruments. To one side of the desk was a smaller table on which sat a computer and telephone console. The desk faced the inner wall, in which two windows looked out on the courtyard pool. He noted that there was only one other item of decoration in the room and this was a large map hanging on the wall at the far end. It was set off-centre because of the presence of another arched doorway to one side. Michael was immediately drawn to its jumble of flags and figures and a large, gold-leaf embossed windrose that dominated one side. Moving closer he could make out it was a map of the Mediterranean and North African coastline but that the lettering of the multiple place names was all in Arabic. Instinctively, Michael put out his hand to touch the map but was embarrassed as the almost imperceptible clear glass plate that protected it repulsed his fingers. He turned to Alonzo. “This is magnificent. A portolan I guess. Fifteenth-century. Catalan?” he quizzed.

“Very accurate, my young friend.”

“The Arabic script is unusual though,” Michael observed as he turned his head sideways to try and read the writing on a red flag that dominated the edge of the map. Below the flag in heavy ink and almost certainly a later edition was a single word written in what seemed like Old Spanish or Portuguese. “I have never seen one like that.”

“You will not again,” Alonzo agreed.

“Where is it from?” Michael asked without taking his eyes from the map.

“It was produced in 1486 at the workshop of Jehuda ben Zara, a mapmaker in Alexandria, as a commission for one Hamid al-Zagri. It was never much used by its owner hence its condition.”

Michael pointed to the Spanish graffiti that he had noted on the map. “What does that mean?”

“Acanaveados,” Alonzo pronounced the word slowly. “Acanaveados was the name given to Christian converts to Islam who when captured fighting for the Moors of Granada were used as live targets for spear throwing contests by the forces of Fernando. I suspect that Hamid al-Zagri met his fate in this way, and thus the graffiti of the victorious scribe.”

“Who was al-Zagri?”

“The Arabic writing on the red flag reads ‘There is no conqueror, save God’ and it was the motto of the Nasrid dynasty Amirs who ruled Granada for three centuries until its fall. Hamid al-Zagri was the military governor of Malaga who held out against the Christian forces until the 20 August 1487. As part of his responsibilities for the main port of the kingdom he had commissioned the map, two years earlier, in order to be fully conversant with the most up to date information on the Mediterranean. Most navigation maps, of that time, were drawn in heavily censored workshops and the agents of Christian kingdoms zealously guarded the information included. Hamid al-Zagri had to have his pirated copy reproduced in the relative safety of Alexandria. After Malaga fell, al-Zagri was captured and, it was supposed, sent into slavery. However the graffiti implies that he met his death like a Christian convert. This would have been done as a final and deliberate insult.”

“How did you come by it?” Michael asked, fascinated.

Alonzo smiled. “God willing, that is a story for another day. Come, I want to show you something else.” Taking a disproportionately large key, it seemed to Michael, Alonzo opened the small door beside where the map was hung and then stood aside to let Michael enter.

“Wow!” Michael exclaimed in amazement as he found himself in a large library. Three of the walls were completely occupied by neatly arranged bookshelves to the height of the second-floor ceiling. A narrow, wooden balcony divided the walls into two levels. There was an octagonal reading lectern in the centre of the room and against the far wall a low glass display cabinet. The natural light that entered the room was muted and came through a stained-glass dome in the ceiling. On the one bare wall were two prints. He moved towards the centre of the room and circling the lectern continued to stare at the rows and rows of books. “This is fantastic Alonzo.”

“Thank you Michael. This library is my paradise on earth. Please look around. I want to organize some coffee.”

Alonzo disappeared and Michael walked slowly past the rows, occasionally touching a binding or lifting a book out to inspect the title page. He felt like an intruder at times and avoided lingering too long with any one book. Most were very old but in good condition. He was looking at the wall above the display cabinet when Alonzo returned. “Are they original Durer’s?” Michael’s face had a disbelieving look.

“Yes.” Alonzo said matter-of factly as if it was the most normal thing to have them. “They are metal engravings rather than woodcut though. Most likely copper, although there is some debate. That on the left is the Knight, Death and Nemesis from 1513. It is an early impression on ribbed paper with the Pitcher watermark. That on the right is Adam and Eve from 1504 on paper with the Bull’s Head watermark. This is particularly rare as it is a very early impression with no inscription on the tablet hanging from the tree. Do you see?”

Michael nodded. He felt out of his depth and said, “I wish I knew more of the technical aspect of his work.”

Alonzo smiled in a paternal way. “Do not worry about that. I am an old man and have little else but time to distract me whereas you, on the other hand, carry the cares of the world on your shoulders. Come, let us go and have coffee.”

Michael turned to follow him but stopped. “Alonzo, what are the books in the display case? Are they the most precious in your collection?”

Alonzo stopped and watched Michael for a moment. “Yes and no. I change the display to compliment the guests I bring here.”

“Did you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“I am flattered but also very embarrassed because I do not know what they are.”

“The book on the left is a fine copy of the Muquaddima of Ibn Khaldun. This was the introduction to his universal history but near the end is an account of the development of natural sciences and a lamentation that the advances were now coming from the west instead of the east. You and your science are the continuation of that trend. The middle of the three, with writing that looks Asian in character, is a beautiful vellum manuscript of the Haran Gawaita, written in Syriac about 300CE, and is an account of the history of the Mandaeans and the traditions of the Magi. The final book, on the right, is written on papyrus paper and is a copy of the Hypostasis of the Archons or otherwise called the Book of Norea. It is a Gnostic book written in Sahidic Copt and dates from about the same time.”

Michael stared at the books, trying to figure out their relevance to him. He turned to inquire only to find that Alonzo had already left the room. Despite his lame leg the older man continued at a fast pace out of the study and further along the courtyard corridor until he entered a modern-furnished sitting room. As Michael caught up with him Alonzo asked, “How do you like your coffee, Michael? It is Arabica.”

“Have you had the chance to meet with Isabella again, Michael?” The older man interrupted as he sat down on a seat opposite his guest. He balanced his cup on the armrest and began to fill a pipe from a pouch that lay on the table. He smiled at Michael whose face had reddened a little. “Smoke if you wish.”

“Thank you. Yes, I have met Isabella again, today in fact. I had a late lunch with her before coming to meet you.”

“A very attractive woman, Isabella.” Alonzo’s facial expression was inquisitive. “It must have been difficult to pull yourself away from her company.”

Michael squirmed a little in his seat. “Very! Intelligent and sharp witted. I find her company . . . stimulating.”

“Better than that of an old man, no doubt.”

“It is a different type of stimulation, Alonzo,” Michael paused, unsure of how to proceed. “It is as if she and I are playing a game of chess. Each makes a move and the other counteracts. Perceptions on my part are challenged by anticipation on hers; insight is clouded by confusion, partial knowledge by complete ignorance. Whatever chemistry brought us together she controls the formula. I am intrigued and daunted by her. Can you understand?”

“In Isabella’s case, yes. Is the relationship sexual?”

Michael let out a nervous laugh. “Steady on, Alonzo. I suddenly feel that a prospective father-in-law is interrogating me. You’re not, are you?”

The older man laughed as well. “No. I am sorry to pry Michael, but it is important.”

“Why? I am afraid you again have me at a loss Alonzo.”

“To explain I need to tell you more of the story of the People and the seals. Can you be patient?”

“Sure Alonzo. I am not in any hurry anywhere.” Michael lit a cigarette and as his exhaled smoke mingled with Alonzo’s he settled back into the comfort of the chair. Alonzo refilled their coffee cups while Michael looked around the room. There was a domed skylight in its ceiling although a little smaller than the one he had seen earlier in the library. By now the study was quite dark and he could see through the skylight stars as they appeared in the night-sky above. They appeared to shimmer in the blue-tinted glass.

“You asked yesterday, Michael, if the seals still existed.” Alonzo spoke in a quiet voice, as he watched the younger man stare up through the skylight. “Quite amazingly, and I do not want this to come across as some mystical fairy-story but they do!” he added.

Michael stopped looking upwards and concentrated on what Alonzo was saying. He tried to keep the look of amazement of his face. “Are you serious? That’s fantastic.” An image of the library crept into his thoughts. “Where are they kept?” he asked.

“Everywhere and nowhere. As you might imagine the seals through the millennia have passed through many hands, mostly as individual pieces but sometimes collectively in small groups. As a consequence they have had different collective names over the millennia. Some generations have called them the seven Khnumu or architects, others the Hydria, but in the language of our People they are always best known as the Voices.”

“Has that something to do with what you were explaining to me yesterday,” Michael asked. “About the development of language? Are they called Voices because they and their hieroglyphs are a key to understanding the origins of the Proto-Indo-European language you talked about?” Michael was very keen to show that he had being paying attention.

“No, not quite.” Alonzo leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Ash and loose tobacco fell, ignored, to the floor from the tilting pipe. “What do you understand by language and its development, Michael?”

“Most academics have given up the quest for a universal proto-language, accepting that onomatopoeic imitation of the noises of nature and the accidental sounds of human contact, rather than a grand or divine design, were responsible for the development of language. Sounds were joined, as metaphors, and understood. The differences in the development of the identified major language groups probably related more to the anatomical structure of the larynx and the resonance of their stage of development at that particular locality. Ideas on the other hand are different. They, perhaps, are the divinely imprinted wanderings of the conscious and sub-conscious, the pathways to gnosis. Ideas, like time, fill the void and only materialize when briefly constrained by the metaphors of language.”

“I do not understand then the link to the seals…the Voices, Alonzo.”

“The hieroglyphs or symbols carved into the face of the seals, Michael, are not the keys to an ancient language. They are the marks of a covenant, the pictograms of the early ideas of our race and the bargain with the Creator Gods. Can you accept that possibility? Think of the circular motifs on the stone-age burial tombs in Ireland. What was their meaning if not an idea or idealization of the link to the Gods. Nearly every civilization has had some sort of expression.”

“Perhaps ideas and the course of time captured in the matter of stone seals and their never-ending journeys.”

“Exactly! And if, at any point in that timeline mankind loses its way, degenerates as it were, then with reasoning and an understanding of the original intent as a starting point and the depicted ideas acting as an intermediary, the way can be regained, regenerated.”

Michael nodded vigorously. “It is a very plausible possibility and a beautiful inheritance.”

Alonzo smiled weakly. “Yes, but it also brings responsibility and trouble. The collective acquisition of the Voices from earliest antiquity, has always been a magnet for men and sometimes women acquainted with their history, or suspicious of, their power. There is an ancient tradition within the lore of our People, which suggests that if the seven are ever gathered together, time will stand still and that the ideas, the gestures of our existence, will lose their ability to regenerate forever. Eschatos! With the loss of the Voices the truth can never be attained and all the powers of heaven and earth will reside in the gatherer.”

“Has anyone ever had all seven in their control?”

“No, it appears not but it might be a reality soon.”

“How come. Where are they?”

“Patience, Michael. Let me tell you something of their individual stories first, or at least as much as I know, and then I will answer your questions.” At that moment both men heard a telephone ringing. It came from the direction of Alonzo’s study. Alonzo appeared irritated as he stood up and looked at his watch. “Excuse me for a moment, Michael. It is unusual for someone to telephone me at this time. It must be important. I will not be long.”

It was about ten minutes later when the older man returned. He looked very tired, and frail, all of a sudden. Michael got up from his chair. “Is everything all right, Alonzo?” he asked concerned.

“Michael, I must apologize. The telephone call! A family matter. I have to go out. Perhaps we can meet again tomorrow. Would you care to join me for supper?”

“That will be fine, Alonzo. About five.”

Alonzo was distracted and appeared not to hear. Michael looked at him waiting for an answer. “Oh yes. Five o’clock would be fine, Michael. Let me show you out,” he eventually said as him limped towards the entrance.

Michael Mara put the book that he had been reading down and stood up to greet Isabella Sanjil. She was standing at the far side of his table and was wearing what he thought was probably the smallest black cocktail dress he had ever seen; obscuring the distinction between lingerie and daywear to the limits of designer perception. It was hardly surprising that every other male eye in the restaurant had followed her entrance and that they continued to watch as there was an immediate territorial stand off between the maître d'hôtel and Michael to pull out Isabella’s chair. What was it with her and restaurant staff, he wondered as he lost out to the maître d. He had wanted to greet Isabella in the continental way, to feel her skin against his cheek, but instead had to settle, awkwardly, for a handshake.

The restaurant, which was in a dark alleyway that led onto the calle Zacitín was obviously popular and the room, that lunchtime, was filled with elegantly tailored and bejewelled diners who soon returned to their eating and loud banter. “You look stunning, Isabella,” Michael said as they settled back in their chairs.

“Thank you my kind gentil home. I am sorry that I had to rush away yesterday afternoon without us having had the chance to talk. Some urgent family business needed attending to. It was very good of you to arrange for another opportunity.”

“I was very happy that you were able to make it today. Is everything ok with your family?”

“Oh that. Sure. A minor crisis averted.” Isabella smiled at him before looking around the room for people that she might know. This was done expertly, Michael noted, with only the slightest movement of her head but with eyes that scanned in a complete arc. He watched as she used the excuse of hanging her shoulder bag over the back of the chair to complete the reconnaissance of the diners sitting behind them. Turning back, to look at him again, she gave a small smile of satisfaction.

“What would you like to drink, Isabella?” he asked.

“I like the local vin seco, if that is acceptable to you?”

“Sure,” he replied as he called the waiter over to ask for the wine list.

“Would you like water Señor? Señorita?” the waiter asked handing over a particularly thick leather-backed wine list.

They both nodded. Isabella asked for non-sparkling and while waiting for the water Michael chose one of the scarce but better Granada vintages. The wine waiter nodded approvingly, more for the benefit of Isabella than him but Michael appreciated the professional courtesy and smiled at him warmly. Isabella leaned over and looked at the book he had been reading. “The Dumas Club. I also like Perez-Reverte. Have you read any of his others?” she asked.

Michael picked up the book and placed it out of sight on the ground beneath his chair. “Yes, most. I liked the Fencing Master and The Flanders’s Panel equally well. Less obviously cerebral but better focused and paced than Eco.”

“True,” Isabella agreed as she studied the menu.

Michael did likewise and, both having made their choices passed the next hour or so enjoying the food and the nut-brown wine. It was only when the desert plates had been removed and coffee served that as Isabella reached back into her bag for cigarettes that he noticed she was not wearing the blue pendant he had seen at their first encounter. Instead a plain gold chain around her neck sank into the groove of unsupported breasts. Isabella noticed his interest and inhaled deeply as she transfixed him with a quizzical and slightly conspiratorial smile. “Does your wife suspect that you are having dinner tonight with a young, impressionable Spanish maiden?” she asked nonchalantly.

For Michael the noise and activity in the rest of room seemed to suddenly evaporate in its irrelevancy. The detente was over. He brought his hands up and linked them under his chin as a rest and looked at Isabella for a long time. Her use of English had always been precise, measured. The chasm of difference between suspicion and knowing was, to the scientist, acolyte or cheating husband, the obstacle that they had to rationalize, to overcome. For many it is a beginning, for others a termination. Isabella’s question for him, he knew, was at the same time a test, an initiation and a departure. He gave her a rueful smile and her slightly arched eyebrows showed that she knew he had understood. “I doubt that you were ever easily impressionable Isabella, but in answer to your question, no she does not either know or suspect. Would it matter?” he asked. Michael needed confirmation that this arrangement was mutual.

“Not to me, Michael, because I am here with you by choice. As you are with me, for that matter! Your wife . . .eh . . . Caroline is her name, no? She has had no choice in our arrangement. Does that mean you lead separate lives?”

“No. . .” He hesitated. “Not really.”

“But surely not discussing your lives, away from each other, would undermine trust between you?” Isabella’s question was neutral in tone, inquisitive without accusation or pre-judgment.

“Perhaps,” he said a bit too quickly. “But it would be difficult to explain my desire to explore other female relationships away from the accepted conformity of a married partnership. It would arouse jealousy and conflict.”

“Only because the reasoning for your actions would give cause for jealousy and conflict.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” he said truthfully.

“Of course you do only you do not want to face it,” Isabella confronted.

“Explain please,” he demanded, flushed with irritation.

Isabella blithely ignored his agitation. “To me Michael, and remember I am a virtual stranger, your very obvious inclinations are to try involve yourself physically within those relationships where you deem that the effort is worthwhile. I suspect, from our contact so far, that you obtain a great deal of pleasure and delight in ensuring the satisfaction of others but that is a patronising approach. As such, and although perhaps intense and exciting for all involved, it carries no weight of moral conviction and is doomed in the end to failure.”

“Ensuring happiness is a duty Isabella, and as such does carry a moral worth,” he shot back.

“I agree. If your inclinations are followed through from duty as distinct from beneficence then they do carry a moral strength. Your actions demonstrate a continual desire to move beyond the parameters established by your primary relationship with your wife. These parameters of course are different for different couples, and some even encourage this avenue of exploration. For you apparently, this type of freedom is not an option and the betrayal of trust, as I see it, means ignoring for your own satisfaction the established boundaries. Your inclination for happiness is offset by an inclination to ignore other obligations. You must recognize that.”

“You . . . You are right, Isabella.” Michael’s voice cracked slightly and he felt his heart pounding from the danger of the insight. “I do have the inclination to find happiness in new and unexpected shared experiences and have rationalised my desire to explore those needs.”

“Needs? You say that as if it is enough of a justification of your actions. Are you a serial philanderer so? Am I a number to be notched up?” Isabella stared at him with steely eyes.

“No! Of course not! Its just that . . . I’m captivated by you,” he blustered.

Isabella gave him a dismissive look. “But that is purely sexual Michael, spreading your seed as it were. If you are that desperate let’s go into the toilet or if you prefer, your hotel, and have sex right now. Remove it as an objective. Every other man in this room would jump at the offer. Is that what you want, Michael?”

“No of course not Isabella! You make it sound trite, dirty even. I explained myself badly. I don’t just want sex but want to explore the potential for a shared happiness. Yes, I’ve had other relationships but cannot remember feeling the intensity that I do right now.”

“A temporary phenomenon. I assure you.” Isabella laughed loudly as she said this.

Michael remained defensive. “No. Not true. You and I were destined to meet, Isabella. That is my conviction and the justification for my actions. I really want to know and understand you.”

“I doubt that, Michael. The feminist writers would consider that reasoning a phallusy, I think the right term is.” Isabella blew smoke in his direction.

Michael waited for the fog to clear surprised by her uncharacteristic mispronunciation. “What do you mean by fallacy?” His question was sharp in its tone, reflecting some of the discomfort he suddenly felt.

Isabella leant forward and held his hand. “I said phallusy Michael, not fallacy: faulty reasoning engendered by a penile assessment of me as an object! Do not misunderstand me. I am sure you are a very beneficent lover. Patient, attentive, adventurous and even sympathetic. I am also sure that few of your secret women friends would have faulted you on that score but it does not equate to knowing or understanding them. I suspect that you have never completely given of yourself and that they instinctively would, as I have, recognize that fact and be prepared for ultimate disappointment. You compartmentalize, you separate, you move on. Your inclination is to secure happiness but you are afraid of the duty, as you put it, involved.”

“What is it about people that makes them all want to be bloody psychoanalysts?” Michael growled as he pulled his hand from hers.

“What do you mean, Michael?” she asked, a little concerned.

“Ah . . . nothing Isabella. It is just that recently nearly everybody I care about, both here and in the States, have said much the same thing to me. I must be a sad case.”

“Perhaps, but not terminal.” Isabella laughed as she took his hand again. She noticed the fine hairs on the back of his wrist prickle in an electric response. “There is a cure Michael.”

“What’s that?”

“Get off the intersection or the fence as you Irish say. You are straddling the compartments you have conveniently contrived for yourself. Go one way and you can tell the world and your obligation to duty to ‘get fucked’. You can play the games but at least be honest and admit that it is for your satisfaction and yours only. Go the other and you will open your mind and life to experiencing, without pretence, real relationships with the world, women and even other men for that matter. The choice is stark but necessary.”

“Thank you for that advice.” Michael said sarcastically as he fumbled with his napkin, sweat-battered by her full frontal assault. “And you Isabella, what do you want in a man? What do men think of you?”

Isabella smiled sweetly and squeezed his hand before withdrawing hers. “Do you mean sexually or as a friend?”

“Both.”

“I love men with a firm tight bottom and nice eyes,” Isabella taunted and then watched as he shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

It was at that very moment however that Michael felt waves of release wash over him. A tidal cleansing of his soul, he thought. Relieved, ecstatic almost, he began to laugh loudly, ignoring the initial amusement and then annoyance of the other diners. It was almost manic in its intensity. Composing himself slowly he crossed his eyes and stared back at Isabella across the table. “And there was I wishing for a bigger penis. Thank you, Isabella.” He really meant it.

“It is my pleasure, Michael. In answer to your question, although I see it is no longer an issue, as a friend I give my trust to few people and as a sexual being I am celibate.”

“Celibate. Jasus. I find that hard to believe. You must be one of the most sensual women I have ever met. Why?”

“Are you asking about sex or trust?”

“Sex.”

Isabella laughed. “I see we are getting back down to basics.” She stubbed out the cigarette and immediately lit another. “I am celibate as a matter of choice, of discipline as it were. It is hard to explain.”

“You mean, like a priest or nun?”

“No, not really. I am not Catholic but I suppose in its original intention it is not that different. There was a famous Sufi mystic and writer called Ibn ‘Arabi from Andalusia who in the twelfth century said that it can only be in woman that man may truly contemplate God.”

“The Shaykh al-Akbar. Born in Murcia I think. I read his book of poetry dedicated to the Lady Nizam during a romantic summer long ago,” Michael immediately remembered, all his faculties firing.

“Wow. I am impressed, Michael. It means you possibly understand,” Isabella said with a slight purse of her lips.

“In what way?”

“In remaining celibate I have purified my soul. I have reached a spiritual stability which the Sufi’s call tamkin. In recompense there is insight, knowledge and wisdom. Ibn ‘Arabi suggests that a celibate woman is the ultimate jamal or beauty describing the relationship of mankind with God.”

“Have you always . . . eh?”

“What? Been celibate?”

He nodded and Isabella’s unfettered laughter, once more, made them the focal point of the room. “You are persistent! No, Michael, I am not a virgin. I have had to travel through a number of degrees of ascent to achieve this state of inner peace. You were observant earlier about my sensuality and, believe me when I say this; the transition has often been difficult. Duty for me has meant sacrificing some very strong inclinations. Can you understand?”

“Yes, although it is hard to rationalize the sacrifice.”

Isabella squeezed his hand again. “Cheer up, Michael. There is some hope. I reserve the option to review that choice at any time. I consider that the pursuit of pleasure, material or sensual, is a wilful choice and not the result of original sin or inherent evil. For me however my duty to secure happiness is served best by the opposite course. There is an additional value in the energy saved by needless games and this allows me to develop trusting relationships with my Creator, others and myself. You should consider it.”

“I thought that the Sufi’s felt that in making love to a woman man reaches the state of annihilation and that the couples’ sins were absolved.”

“Yes, but that annihilation is only in the context of absorbing the light of God. In its intention it is a stage on the path to understanding. Salvation requires that we release ourselves from the constraints of matter, lust, and belonging to reach a higher awareness. This I must do alone.”

“Have you never met the right man?”

“Person you mean. It does not automatically mean a male is necessary.”

“You are right, but then I am looking at you from a male perspective.”

“You should stop looking at me, Michael and look into me instead.”

“I would like that.”

“I wonder whether you are up to the challenge though? Are you really ready to contemplate annihilation as you put it?” Isabella’s eyes probed.

“Try me,” he said with bravado.

“Even if we never consummated our relationship?” Isabella’s question to him was not posed with a tone of finality and it left an avenue that was generous in its possibilities.

Michael smiled at the realisation. “You were right earlier, Isabella. As a lover and friend I have serious shortcomings, if you can excuse the pun, and I would hate to disappoint you, in either category.”

“But you hardly know me, Michael. Why would what I thought matter?”

“All of a sudden, it is really important to me Isabella. Perhaps I have been searching for this . . . For someone like you. Who knows?”

Isabella took his hand and lifting it to her lips kissed the tips of the fingers gently. “What are you doing later, Michael? Would you like to meet?”

“Yes, I would . . . but . . . I’m meeting Alonzo at eight. Perhaps we can arrange to see each other after that.”

“Alonzo who?” she quizzed. A frown creased her forehead.

“Alonzo Aldahrze of course. Remember! You told me about him,” he explained.

“Did I?” Isabella looked strangely perturbed and hesitated for a moment. “Of course I did. The Baedekers. I had forgotten. You managed to find him. That’s . . . good. How is Alonzo? I have not seen him for a while.”

“Yes, he said that you had been in America.”

“Did he? Yes, I was . . . I was at a conference presenting my work.”

“Where was that? I’m sorry I missed it.”

Isabella was still holding his hand and squeezed it again. “Thank you, Michael. You are sweet. It was in . . . Chicago and it was boring. This is much more enjoyable. Come closer.”

Michael complied and Isabella, keeping her eyes locked on his, leaned forward and gently kissed his lips. He could feel her tongue run quickly and lightly along their join but she pulled away before he had the chance to respond. “What did I do to deserve that? I must remember.”

“You are a nice man, Michael. Listen! If meeting tonight is not possible how about tomorrow? It will have to be late as I am working. Would you come to my apartment?”

He tried to control, unsuccessfully, his nodding head. “Sure. What time? Where do you live?”

Isabella’s voice lightened as she let his hand go and reached back to get her purse. “I will give you my personal card. Let’s meet at say . . . eleven pm.” She pushed the card towards him with a long fingernail pointing to the address.

“That will be fine. I am sorry about this evening,” he said as he looked at the card before putting it into his wallet. That movement brought the attentive waiter to the table with the bill. Michael extracted his AmEx credit card and handed it to him, and signed for a more than generous tip. The waiter returned with the card and a smile that was, for the first time during the meal, directed at both, Isabella and him, equally.

“Michael, shall we venture out together into the light?” Isabella asked as they stood up. The late afternoon sunshine was barely penetrating the shaded room.

“Yes, but don’t let me forget the hurricane lamp,” he replied. “You are a storm waiting to happen.”

Isabella laughed and linked his arm possessively as they paraded out of the restaurant and on towards the Zacitín.

In the smaller of the two conference rooms on the second floor of the hotel that looked out over the turquoise-blue waters of the Gulf of California, where morning squalls whipped at the waves and drove the multicoloured emblazoned sails of windsurfers across their crests. The room itself had little in the way of decoration apart from a woven Mexican rug on one wall. It was dominated by a large oval table with matching high-backed chairs, made from imported madroña burr. A projection system, tethered by its umbilical arm to the ceiling, hovered above the table. As Caroline entered the room she was struck by the orange glow that the table reflected in the morning light. At the same time a loud voice, at the far end of the room, called the meeting to order, “Señores e señora, now that we are all here please take your seats. At the instigation of our Columbian friends the US-Mexican High-Level Contact Group on Drug Control has asked that this working group meet. I will first make the introductions and then we can get down to work.”

Caroline had met Vincente Ayala on a number of previous occasions and admired his affable yet focused way of dealing with people. He was a jovial man in his late fifties from San Cristobal de las Casas in the Jovel Valley and never tired of reminding her of his brief but ‘beautiful’ time in England playing professional soccer for Chelsea and how he loved, and was loved by English women. A shattered ankle had put paid to that career and after returning to Mexico, he had entered Government service and rose up through the ranks to head the money laundering investigation unit in the new Secretariat for Public Security and Justice. There was a shuffle of chairs as people sorted themselves out.

“On my left is Randy Coors of the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network; John Cortes of the US Treasury’s Secret Service; Jack Jago from the US State Department’s Bureau of International Narcotics and Law Enforcement and last, but not least, the beautiful Caroline Mara of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing.” Vincente smiled mischievously at Caroline before he continued, “At the far end of the table, beyond the beautiful Caroline, are Miguel Montana from the Columbian Financial Intelligence Unit, Fabio Calamar of the Direccion Nacional Estupefacientes and Escobar de Alarcon of the Columbian Prosecutor General’s Office.” There was a great deal of nodding acknowledgement and as Caroline was nearest she took the opportunity to lean forward over the table to shake their hands. Vincent watched her movements admiringly and waited for her to sit down again before giving a quick wink and hurrying to finish. “Finally, playing for Mexico as it were, are Commander Diego Rios of the Federal Preventive Police’s Maritime Interdiction Force, Juan Hidalgo de Morales of the Mexican Attorney General’s office and myself, of course.”

Caroline smiled at the two Mexicans. The Attorney General’s man was pale and slightly precious looking. He returned her greeting with a nervous grimace.

“I hope your players do not give us Columbians the elbow again.” It was Miguel Montana, who spoke with a sarcastic laugh.

Rios, the federal policeman, shot out of his chair and storming around the end of table pulled out Montana’s chair and glared at him. “What do you mean by that?” he questioned angrily. Diego Rios was about 40, Caroline thought, and in contrast to nearly everyone else in the room had the wavy, unbleached, blonde hair of a Californian surfer. Although his features were hard they had a rugged handsome appeal. She found herself looking at his hands. He had long fingers and they hovered as if ready to throttle Montana.

“Nothing. It was just a joke. Do not take it so seriously, Commander,” Miguel Montana grinned.

“Diego! Please retake your seat. We are all friends here.” Vincente Ayala looked flustered and watched with mounting horror as Rios swung the palm of his right hand towards Montana’s face. “Stop, Diego,” he cried out.

Rios laughed as just at the point of contact he held the blow and let his fingers lightly brush the skin of Montana’s cheek. “I am only joking, Vincente. Of course we are all friends.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Randy Coors asked out loud as he watched Rios saunter back towards his seat.

“I suspect there is some bad-blood over the recent Copa Americana. Boys will be boys!” Caroline smiled sweetly as she gave Vincente a slight nod.

“I don’t understand, Caroline.” It was Jago’s turn to look puzzled.

“Columbia beat Mexico in the recent final of the Copa Americana.” Caroline explained. “It's the biggest soccer tournament in the world after the World Cup. Near the end of the final one of the Mexican defenders elbowed a Columbian in the face and all hell broke loose. The referee lost control and the match ended in sour circumstances. I do not think Commander Rios appreciated the reference.” Caroline looked at Montana and then Rios in turn.

“I’m most impressed, Señora,” Diego Rios said as he brushed his hand through his hair. “You know your football.”

“I watched a great deal of it on television, Commander. It was a great tournament, full of skill and passion. I can well understand the frustrations it aroused. I gather that Mexico have finished third or second on the last three occasions.” Caroline saw Vincente Ayala nod furiously.

“That is true but . . . it is no excuse. I apologise to Miguel for my behaviour.” Rios walked back to Montana and held out his hand.

The Columbian looked relieved and shook it vigorously. “I also, for my bad taste in jokes.” Montana smiled at Caroline.

Everybody at the table relaxed a little and Rios, before retaking his seat, leant across the table and held out his hand for Caroline to shake. “I am Diego Rios, Señora. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Caroline obliged but was quite surprised at the cold laxity of his grip.

“Good. Now that’s all settled . . .” Vincente Ayala pressed a button on the console in front of him and watched as the curtains began closing. “Perhaps we can get down to business. Jack Jago will first give us an overview and then discuss specifics. Jack.” Ayala pressed another button to activate the dimmer lighting and then moved his chair to offer an unimpeded view to the others of the projection screen behind him.

Jack Jago walked to a small lectern set out at an angle from the wall in the top corner of the room. The overhead projection unit flickered into action as he removed a USB drive from his pocket and inserted it into the lectern’s slim-line laptop computer. While waiting for it to boot up he checked a small laser pointer he carried by flashing it against the farthest wall. One of the Columbians had started smoking and the laser beam darted between the clouds. Randy Coors let out an irritated cough.

Caroline leant towards him and whispered in Coors’ ear. “Don’t make an issue of the smoking, Randy. You’re in Mexico, remember.” She threw a look in Jago’s direction. “I haven’t seen Jack lecture before. I hope he’s not a squiggler with the laser pointer. I hate squigglers.” Coors gave a small snort and even in the dimness Catherine saw that both Ayala and Rios were looking in her direction. She flushed slightly in a schoolgirl way before leaning back in her seat. The screen suddenly flashed up an image of the great seal of the United States of America and its all-seeing Masonic eye.

“Good morning, everybody,” Jago began. “My presentation will take about twenty minutes after which I will hand over to John Cortes.” A map of the Eastern Pacific Coast stretching from Guayaquil in Ecuador to San Diego in the USA replaced the first image. There was a large red arrow originating from Columbia and ending near the tip of Baja California. A small graph descended from the upper margin to superimpose on the centre of the arrow.

The laser pointer began darting about the graph in a manic dance. “Shit. He’s a squiggler,” Caroline murmured.

“In the past two years it is estimated that the Coca crop in Columbia has increased from about 122,000 hectares to about 136,000. Averaging a yield of, just under, half a kilogram of paste per acre this represents about 54,500kg per crop harvest. With an average of seven harvests a year this amounts to a total production of 370,000kg or 370 tons from Columbia alone of which nearly 60 per cent ends up in the US. With the price of coca paste at source of about $500 per kilo and $4,000 per kilo on hand over to a US dealer it is obviously a significant part of the Columbian economy.” Jago paused to let the figures sink in. “The good news is that we think that the hectarage has peaked. With the full implementation of all the strands of Plan Columbia, starting this summer, we are expecting to start seeing a sustained and significant reduction both in crop production and final product supply. Can everybody hear me?” Jago scanned the room like a junior schoolteacher for any obvious dissent or distraction. “Good,” he continued, satisfied. “I will now turn to Mexico. Although cannabis hectarage has increased both opium and cocaine production has been markedly reduced. If we are half as successful in our Columbian efforts as the Mexican government has been in decimating their illegal crops over the last year then we will be doing great. We can -”

The pale Juan Hidalgo de Morales from the Mexican Attorney General’s office interrupted. “Crop field-surveys have indicated that Mexican cannabis plants have become more robust with a greater flowering area, higher levels of THC . . . eh . . . tetrahydrocannabinol, and a greater resistance to herbicides.”

Caroline was secretly pleased that he had had the gumption to interrupt Jago. She tried giving him a smile and a slight nod of encouragement.

“Thanks for that. . . eh . . . Juan.” Jago said but looked annoyed at the interruption. “To continue. The first bit of bad news, particularly for our group, is, as I have already touched on, that 60 per cent of the cocaine and heroin entering the United States, is of Columbian and to a lesser extent Mexican origin. This trade is primarily routed through Mexican traffickers and, as yet, shows no signs of tailing off despite increased interception of land, air and maritime routes. In addition the Mexican traffickers in particular have begun anticipating the probable change in their main source of income and are switching out into other lucrative areas such as counterfeit. Let me hand over to John at this point.”

“Thanks, Jack.” John Cortes said breezily as he squeezed Caroline’s arm. As he stood up he whispered so as only she would hear, “What is it worth to you if I don’t use the pointer?” Cortes pulled out his own USB drive and on reaching the lectern he inserted it into the laptop. He looked at his audience and spoke in a slow Texan drawl. “Counterfeit production has been a relative sideline in Columbia until recently but with the availability of increasingly sophisticated copiers the Treasury have had their work cut out keeping ahead of the forgers. Caroline will address those issues in a little while but I want to deal with the current status of the Mexican situation in particular.” A picture of two young men flashed on the screen with the word WANTED theatrically stamped in red across the lower section. “These are the Arellano Felix brothers who are well known to our Mexican colleagues. Through a system of intimidation enforced by the so-called ‘juniors’, they have controlled the major portion of the sea and land transport of cocaine from Mexico and Columbia into the US for about ten years. As Jack Jago has already mentioned briefly, the Mexican Government has been very successful in attempting to break up the power of the Arellano Felix Organisation. The AFO group’s activities and direct Felix family control of those activities has declined significantly. It is our information, however, that one of the ‘juniors’ of the family, an associate of the captured financial controller of the AFO, Jesus “Chuy” Labra Aviles, has stepped into the vacuum and is slowly establishing himself. It appears that his expertise was counterfeit currency and money laundering and he has expanded the operation here in Mexico to fund his push for total control.” Cortes paused to allow this information to be digested. He then continued in a less optimistic tone. “The bad news, from our point of view, is that up to now we have had no idea who this new player was. We had no obvious target. But, with help from our Columbian friends, and that is the reason for this meeting, we have been able to add a few clues to the puzzle.”

Cortes nodded across the room to the smoke-enveloped Columbians. Their faces all remained impassive as if trying to deny who was responsible for passing on the information. “The man in question was also a close associate of the recently arrested Carlos Guzman, who served as the go-between for the Columbia-Mexico shipments to the AFO. He is rumoured to be originally from the town of Siquiros, in Sinaloa State, and is codenamed, Diablo. The counterfeit operation is thought to be centred in Mazatlan and is producing good quality forgeries of the Series 1997 $50 notes. The money laundering is conducted through the unregulated ‘casas de cambio’ here in Mexico and off-shore banking facilities in Belize.” The screen flashed and a picture of a $50 bill appeared which then split to give a close up view of Ulysses Grant and the metallic strip to the right of the portrait. “At this point I will hand over to Caroline Mara.”

Caroline stood up and smiled at Ayala before she walked slowly to the lectern. She was wearing tight fitting blue denim jeans and a white tee shirt and in the smoke-laden gloom of the room the eyes of every man followed her long legged movements. She knew it. “Thank you, John. Gentlemen . . .” Caroline pressed a button on the console and the screen split to also show a picture of a boat surrounded by smiling policemen. “This bill was recovered in a maritime seizure of a ‘go-fast’ catamaran speed boat, last November, in an exercise co-ordinated by the Maritime Interdiction Working Group and directed by Commander Rios.” Caroline thought she caught an appreciative display of pearly white teeth on the other side of the table. “There were 3.2 metric tons of cocaine and two million dollars of these forged bills on board. The quality is excellent . . . Of the currency, I mean.” She could hear John Cortes burst out laughing and the others around the table followed suit and she waited for them to settle before she continued. Her face was flushed. “The watermark, green-black colour shift and fine line concentric background printing are all top-notch. Even the UV yellow glow of the metallic strip and micro printing in the collar of Grant’s shirt has been achieved.” The slides changed as Caroline highlighted the details. “A few major errors such as the omission of the micro printing on the flag in the metallic strip and the numeral height being 13.8 instead of 14 mm makes them easy for experts to spot however the overall improvement in the quality is quite extraordinary. There is truly a craft combination of engraving and printing.” Caroline pressed a key on the laptop and the projection image shut down. “I’m finished with the projector, Vincente. You might pull back the curtains and we can open up for questions.” As the curtains whirred back the mid-morning sunlight flooded into the room. Caroline was blinded momentarily and struggled to suppress a sneeze. She walked to the far end of the room and opened the fridge to pull out a bottle of chilled water. She was still pouring it when the first question came.

“I am not sure why our Columbian friends are here. This counterfeiting seems to be a Mexican issue.” Diego Rios spoke through a cloud of smoke.

Vincente Ayala at the head of the table frowned and when Caroline caught his eye he threw a quick glance upwards towards the ceiling. John Cortes leant forward. “I’ll take this if I may Vincente. The cocaine that you recovered, Commander Rios, as you know, was Columbian and destined for a dealer whose contact with the Medelin cartels was through Guzman. It was also the first maritime seizure where counterfeit money was also found in great quantities and this stroke of luck has provided us with the first possible lead to the mysterious Diablo and his direct links with the Columbians.” Rios said nothing but examined his nails in a distracted fashion.

“In addition,” Caroline added as she returned to the lectern. “The paper for the forgeries was Columbian although the metallic printing ink has a Mexican spectroscopic fingerprint of origin.” All eyes turned to looked at her as she commented in a matter-of-fact tone while removing her disc from the laptop.

“How do you know that, Señora Caroline? We do not have that information.” It was Fabio Calamar.

“Analysis of the paper shows a linen-cotton mix which deviates marginally but significantly from the Crane and Company Standard of US notes. I only received the paper analysis and database comparisons yesterday and it gives a 98 per cent probability match with a type that is only produced by a single mill in Bogotá. I am sure that this will be a fruitful area for joint surveillance and I will include the information in your briefing pack at the end of our meeting. I needed to clear that first with the Bureau of Engraving and Printing,” Caroline explained.

“See. They do not trust us, the Americans.” It was Diego Rios who spat out the words, his pearly teeth enveloped in a sarcastic sneer.

Caroline instantly felt that both Randy and John were about to pounce on him so she decided to strike first. She toppled the glass she had been drinking from and a small amount of water spilt across the table towards the blonde Mexican policeman. “Oh dear. How clumsy of me.”

“No problem. No damage done,” Vincente Ayala placated as he leant forward and mopped the water up with a flamboyantly produced pocket-handkerchief.

Caroline returned the glass to an upright position. She smiled apologetically to Rios firstly and then to the Columbian officials on her left. “With regard to the results of the paper analysis and the information on the paper mill in Bogotá it is my fault that it is not available for you at this session. I was delayed on my way to the airport and in my hurry I left the briefing documents behind in the office. I’ve contacted the Bureau and they are being flown down this evening on the commercial flight from LA. You will have them tomorrow. My apologies again.” Nobody said anything but Caroline saw that Randy and John had relaxed back in their seats.

“I think that is enough for this morning. We will break for lunch and meet again at two.” Ayala was already standing and as there were no objection the participants began filing out. “Caroline, could I have a word.” Ayala looked up at her as he watched the others leave the room.

“Sure, Vincente.”

“Thank you for earlier. You saved a very difficult situation with your knowledge of soccer. Most impressive.”

“My husband Michael coaches a high-school soccer team in Los Angeles. We watched the match together. We wanted Mexico to win but don’t say that out loud.”

“I won’t. Thank you again.”

“I’ll see you later, Vincente.” Caroline was just at the door when Diego Rios, who had obviously waited for her, approached. She saw that John Cortes and Jack Jago were also waiting and waving at them indicated for her colleagues to go on ahead without her.

“Doctor Mara.”

“Yes, Commander Rios. Please call me Caroline, by the way. We are all friends here, right? Trying to tip the scales of good and evil to the side of the just.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I apologize for my rudeness inside. It has been a difficult week.”

“I understand Commander –”

“Diego.”

“I understand, Diego. I took no offence. As you might have gathered I am English and as a nation we also have a well established, and even occasionally well founded, mistrust of our neighbours, the French. Sometimes minor domestic upheavals or misunderstandings, such as a soccer match, can become international incidents. My work in comparison to yours is almost cocooned in its safety. Direct operational confrontation with the cartels must be very stressful, for both you and you family.” Caroline watched for a reaction, but there was little. “Anyway. A little warning shot across the bows of Uncle Sam’s good old boys, every now and then, does them no harm at all. No harm at all.”

Diego laughed aloud. “I am glad that you understand.”

“I will see you after lunch, Diego. I have a few calls to make,” Caroline giggled conspiratorially as she shook his hand and headed for the elevator, where Randy Coors waited for her.

“You handled that well, Caroline. Luckily Vincente had warned us that Rios was a bit of a hothead,” he whispered as he pressed the floor button.

“What do we know about him? The blonde hair and flashing teeth are confusing me. Not typical Mexican,” she asked.

Randy pursed his lips and tilted his chin to one side. “Very little as it happens. Used to work in the Office of the Special Prosecutor for Drug Crimes; or the FEADS as it’s known, but was promoted and switched to the PFP when Commander Cesar Jimenez of FEADS fled after been suspected of involvement in Arellano-Felix-linked murders. He has top level security clearance though, but I’m not sure about his herpes status!”

Caroline punched him hard in the midriff. “Rude bastard. That’s not what I meant.”

Randy had to take a large intake of breath before answering. “Ouch. That’s some forehand you’ve got. How is Michael by the way?”

Caroline could see her reflection in the mirrored panel of the elevator. She looked downwards and pretended to shuffle her notes. “Fine, Randy, a little confused but fine. He’s in Spain at the moment but will be home at the weekend.” The elevator stopped on Caroline’s floor and she stepped off it. “See you later.”

“Ok.” Randy watched her walk down the corridor. The doors closed. “Boy. That is one gorgeous woman,” he spoke to his own reflection as he brushed back his thinning hair with his hand and inspected his teeth.